irrelevant
by luvtwilight4eva
Summary: Irrelevant is defined as inconsequential, insignificant, and worthless. Once, there was a girl whose world screamed her irrelevance. The girl became a woman still shackled to this harsh view of herself. It took a literal force of nature, a larger than life character to let her see her worth, her relevance, to him and everyone else. AH/OOC.
1. Preface

DISCLAIMER: We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her _Twilight_ characters which belong to her. The character Hester Prynne is owned by Nathaniel Hawthorne. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author. This is my entry in the 2013 TLS Angst Contest.

This preface is unbeta'd due to my haste to share this as soon as the contest winners were announced. The rest of the chapters will be beta'd by the incomparable SunflowerFran.

"_Push," an older woman orders._

_"I can't. It hurts too much," an out-of-breath and utterly tired pregnant woman laments._

"_I can see the head. Push, I tell you. You'll see your baby with _this_ last push," the woman, acting as the nurse, vows. _

_The pregnant woman lifts her head off the pillow. Determination is etched on the planes of her face and around her mouth. She's sweaty, but that's not her primary concern as a sharp pain hardens her stomach. She closes her eyes concentrating on expelling the baby from her womb._

_A loud yell followed by a whooshing sound then the cries of a newborn is heard in the room._

_The acting nurse hands the mother her child whose eyes open instantly, looking at the mucus-y covered baby with adoration. A serene smile graces her lips as she silently counts all her baby's fingers and toes. She's pleased with everything her eyes lands on. _

"_You're beautiful," she whispers, cradling the child to her bosom as the baby's tiny hand palms her finger._

This is how I choose to envision my birth. I'm sure you were told a similar tale about your birth.

But everyone is not as fortunate.

My mother did not gaze upon me adoringly. She did not get to count my toes or fingers.

My delivery was hard, leading to a quick death despite her youth. The nurse, who I've been told was my maternal grandmother, did all she could to save her only child—her last living relative— but nothing she did could still death's hand from strangling my mother's heart.

I'm grateful for my life. However, _everything_ in my life reminds me of my irrelevancy.

That was before Edward Anthony Cullen.

To describe me, some would use the term modern-day Hester Prynne. And yet, others would use baser terms like whore and home-wrecker. I'm sure most women, whose lovers have strayed, will probably gloss over my story and dismiss it as insignificant. You may even classify me as a slut, deserving of nothing but hate and tongue-lashing.

I used to be like that. I used to be quick to judge, leaving no room for a gray area because I only saw the world as black and white.

Edward swept into my life like a whirlwind, showing me he was a force to be reckoned with, demanding my attention, and refusing to accept anything but my acquiescence to his indecent proposal.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Wedding

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by the author. **This is my entry in the 2013 TLS Angst Contest. I would like to thank my pre-readers: cejsmom, Ray Flower, Babsy for their assistance in fine tuning my original entry. Also, I would not have been able to enter a truly Angst story without the help of my beta, Sunflower Fran.**

**April 21, 2012**

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your lovely bride," the smiling priest cheerfully yells into the microphone.

The kiss is evidence of the couple's passion, and oozes of lust. The congregation shows their approval with raucous applause, and squeals of delight.

I am sitting in the second to last row on the left side. Supposedly, _this_ signifies that I am either a friend of the bride or part of her family. Plainly put, _this_ seat signifies that I know the bride intimately.

And, I do.

The bride and I share two commonalities:similar DNA strands and the same last name. But, that is where our significance to each other ends.

She is relevant. And I … well, I am the exact opposite**.**

I stand, with the rest of the congregants as the Cullens stroll down the aisle. I'm captivated by her beatific smile and his gracious one, as they clutch onto each other while silently acknowledging their well-wishers. 

I follow the rest of their guests outside of the church and into the perfect Spring afternoon of New York City. Throngs of people rush ahead of me to be a part of the scene, but knowing that no one will actually miss me, I stay in the cool shadows of the church. From my vantage point, on the highest step, I can still see them.

Expensive candid photos are taken of them standing and entering their limousine as rice is thrown at the beaming couple. A pair of doves are released into the striking blue sky, and then, quicker than I'd thought possible, the newlyweds are whisked away by their enviable ride.

My attention is caught by Renee's over-the-top dress as she fusses with the bow. Beside her is her ever-present husband, looking slightly off kilter as he looks around for something. The insistent wave of his hands in my direction lets me know that I am the _something_ he is in search of.

I take a deep breath and hope the mask I've been wearing since hearing about today's festivities is back in place. As I near where they stand next to the waiting family car, I see Renee's displeased countenance.

"Bella, where have you been?"

Exasperation is evident in his speech but also around the tightness of his lips.

Thinking carefully about how to respond, I mentally count to ten before replying, "I've been here." I point to the top of the steps to show him I was in plain sight, _if_ he'd bothered to look.

I hear a breath blown out as if in frustration, but I choose to keep my eyes trained on the man in front of me rather than deal with Renee's impatience with the situation at hand.

"Come on. We have to meet them at the park to take pictures."

He doesn't wait for a response. Renee and I are ushered into the car then he soon joins us. With a click of his tongue, he signals the driver to proceed forward.

The car merges seamlessly into New York City's hectic traffic, and I am lulled into a dreamless sleep. In between the brief time that I close my eyes and open them, I feel the car roll to a smooth stop. I peep over my father's shoulders and see that we are at Central Park. We exit the car and walk through the wrought iron, Vanderbilt Gate.

I see the bridal party has arrived, and the photographer is placing them around the bride and groom. Different poses are called out. The photographer requests a change in facial expressions by everyone except the bride and groom. A hairdresser interrupts the picture taking process by demanding to fix a few strands of stray hair from the bride's face. The makeup artist takes the same opportunity to re-apply some makeup to the bride's eyes.

_As if she wasn't perfect already._

Instead of continuing to be an onlooker when my presence isn't needed, I decide to look around at the beautiful garden. Even though I have lived my entire life in New York City, I've never ventured inside this part of Central Park. So with my mouth slightly agape in awe at this hidden gem, known as the Conservatory Garden, I wander around in amazement. My ears pick up the make-up artist commenting that most of her clients use the larger, Italianate Center Garden, and this was her first time in the smaller, English-style garden.

I walk away from their conversation as it begins to turn petty. I take in the garden's intimate atmosphere and inhale the myriad of smells from flower beds that litter the garden. I am distracted by the fountain of a boy and a girl, and head over to take a closer look. Standing in front, I recognize that the fountain is a tribute to Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of the children's book, _The Secret Garden._

_Ah, the boy and the girl are The Secret Garden's Mary and Dickon characters_ I muse to myself as I turn my attention back to the activities at hand. The bridal party is now milling about the garden. The photographer looks to be reviewing pictures he's already taken. The bride is drinking something that looks refreshing, while the groom is on a cell phone, looking distracted, and from my periphery I see a very bulky-looking man seems to guard him. Renee is talking to her husband who has a determined look on his face.

I leisurely stroll toward them.

" … She will be in the pictures, Renee, and that is final!" he whisper-yells, stomping off.

I don't bother to hide the fact that I've overheard a statement meant to be private, and she doesn't bother to change her displeased-looking facial expression. Renee and I are past pretenses with each other. Now, we only keep them up in her husband's presence.

She approaches me, lowering her voice since a few of the bridal attendants are strolling around us, "Don't ruin those pictures for my daughter."

She leaves me standing there just as I hear her husband beckoning me to where he stands beside the bride.

I swallow the hurt and bury the sting of her rebuke as I walk toward my place … beside my father. On his right is my half-sister, Rosalie, the new Mrs. Cullen, while I am on his left.

As the photographer calls out different arrangement of _the family_, I dutifully stand in the place I'm told to. I also smile and angle my head as I'm told to.

I do not ruin the pictures for my sister.

No one detects my secret desire. Actually, it's a longing. For just one moment, I'd like to be her … to be Rosalie.

To feel what it's like to be fawned over.

To feel what it's like to be considered.

To feel anything but irrelevant!

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran, my beta, rocks! Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot (remove the spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter.


	3. Chapter 2 - My Sister or My Savior?

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by the author.

To clarify, the below is the same day, just a later time in the day, as chapter one.

**April 21, 2012**

Sitting in my seat, I sway my upper body to the music being played. For a moment, I picture myself dancing with a broad-shouldered man whose smell is captivating and makes my mouth water. I can't see his face, but in my mind's eyes he looks upon me as if _I _am his dream come true.

I snort derisively at the thought that someone will ever look up at _me _in that manner, just as a waiter places simple water glasses in front of each guest. Another waiter begins to fill each glass with champagne, and right before my very eyes, the simple water glass reveals the recognizable champagne-glass silhouette. I take up the glass, turning it this way and that, amazed at the transformation that has happened before me.

"Oh, Angela, look Rosalie must have ordered all of MOMA's inside-out champagne glasses for her wedding," someone states from the next table. "She has such discerning taste. This is one of their best selling items."

I'm not given much time to marvel at the ingenious creation nor the person's statement because a discreet tap on the microphone pulls my attention from my glass.

"Will you please stand and welcome for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Cullen," the Master of Ceremony commands.

The applause is deafening. Due to my small stature and the proximity of my seat in the rear of the ballroom, I can't see the happy couple as they walk the short distance onto the dance floor. My eyes are blinded by the lights from the myriad of cameras clicking, in hopes of capturing a shot of the newlyweds' first dance.

I plop unceremoniously down onto my padded seat, reaching for my champagne glass.

I hate the envy that I feel toward them, but mostly toward her. I hate that it's choking the air out of me.

The warm sparkling champagne goes down nicely, and I expel a breath as I place the glass back on top of the table.

I doubt my sister has ever envied anyone, let alone me, a day in her pampered life. I doubt it highly because while I am irrelevant; she, obviously, isn't.

I've been relegated to this lofty position since I was born. I'm used to being invisible, forgotten, and more specifically, not even considered. I'm used to the feeling, but it _still _chafes like a piece of skin rubbed raw from an uncomfortable pair of shoes.

Rosalie Swan, now Cullen, is the one our family is depending on to pull us from the depth of poverty that has choked the life out of us for the last year or so. But truthfully, as far back as I can remember, we've always had money issues. We've just been good at covering it. Renee's overspending to keep up with the Joneses, as well as, my father's poor financial investing has come crashing down upon our heads.

And it happened so painfully and publicly, much to their dismay.

Once upon a time, the Swan's wealth could rival that of some of New York's most prominent families, such as the Rockefellers andthe Whitneys. These were the kind of families the Swans socialized with, lived beside, and went to schools with. My father grew up with maids at his beck and call, attended grand balls at his home, driven by chauffeurs, and went to the most elite private schools. But, the beginning of the end for the Swans began in the Stock Market Crash of 1929. However, some would blame our recent thirty-year streak of financial woes as my father calls it, on a case of poor return on investments, charlatans swindling the family's coffers, and idiotic financial advisors.

Dad's familial estate, the one held for five generations, now has a foreclosure sign on the grounds. We keep moving the 'offending item' as Renee has labeled it, to the garage. Out of sight, out of mind is her philosophy—as if that will erase our financial problems. Last year, we had to let go of the handful of staff we'd kept only to save face with our neighbors, even though we could never afford to pay them in a timely fashion.

Rosalie is four years older than me, born to doting parents, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Swan III. She is their golden child, literally.

She has a head full of natural, honey-blond hair that is always immaculately coiffed, as well as a matching, hour-glass shape. Since her birth, she has been groomed since birth to be this family's savior. Renee and Dad made no bones about their desire to pawn her off onto the richest man in hopes of being able to continue living theirlavish lifestyle.

She was sent to the best of schools—and to this day, I'm not sure how they managed to pay for her expensive tuitions—and she was told, and she readily complied, to befriend only those of a certain social class. Her friends were all the people that she, Renee, and my father hoped to become once again—the filthy rich—and they would achieve that by whatever means were necessary.

And, then, there is irrelevant me.

I came onto the scene in a more unsavory manner.

My father had an affair with a family maid. I am told her name was Zafrina. I'm not exactly sure if he was in love with her or if he just saw something he had to have, since he was used to getting whatever he desired. My biological mother died during childbirth, and her motherquickly moved out of town to parts unknown; but not before leaving me, bundled in a blanket on the Swan's doorstep. There was a note which my father adamantly claims to be in my birth mother's handwriting. It begs for forgiveness on his behalf to Renee, asserts my biological mother as the pursuer in the affair, and gives me to them as a 'gift'.

Sitting in my seat, looking around at the expense laid out for Rosalie's wedding, I have to chuckle at the thought that _I_ could be considered a gift, to anyone.

I'm more like a burden, first to my mother's mother; and, now, very obviously to Renee. I imagine how difficult it must have been to swallow your spouse's indiscretion, and to also see the fruit of that mistake on a daily basis. I shudder at what I assume is Renee's pain caused fromhaving to live with, acknowledge daily, and raise your husband's bastard … and right alongside the rightful heir to the Swan's empire, although it had long since disappeared.

I'm not insulted when I hear the whispers from neighbors or household staff, when we had them, calling me the black Swan. It's the figurative and literal truth. The maid, my mother, was African American. That makes me more the shade of toffee than the alabaster white complexion of my sister and our father. My eye color _can _be described as dark brown, but truthfully, it's more like obsidian than any other color. Renee's description is that my eyes match my soul—black, dastardly, and condemned.

The glaring dissimilarities between my sister and I are not _only _relegated to our differing parentage or physicality. They also extend to our education.

Rosalie was sent to an Ivy League school couple of hours from where we live with the hopes of snagging her future husband. I, was begrudgingly, sent to a local, community college, even though I had the grades for a scholarship, or so my guidance counselor assured Renee and Dad. They, however, cried about the need to keep their baby close to them.

_Bullshit!_

She successfully brought home several marriage prospects throughout her college career. Renee said it was because Rosalie is beautiful; but, I think it was, and still is, because she's a slut, with a capital 'S'.

_Stop that Bella_. _She deserves all the world has to offer because she's saving your ass from having to sleep on the cold, hard ground, begging for food._ I recite the mantra my father has pounded in my head.

She's our savior.

I should be happy for her.

**A/N:**SunflowerFran, my beta, rocks! Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot (remove the spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter.


	4. Chapter 3 - I Have to Stay Away from Him

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

Just to clarify, the below is the same day as chapter one. Just a later time in that day.

Unbeta'd as I forgot to send to Sunflower Fran LOL. 

**Chapter 3: I Have to Stay Away from Him**

**April 21, 2012**

The dance ends.

I see them walk gracefully across the dance floor to their sweetheart table. The rest of the bridal party is interspersed at various tables, amongst the other guests. My eyes continue to sweep the majestic reception hall with cascading floral arrangements spilling artfully from the room's chandeliers as well as the centerpieces. On the left side, near where all the dignitaries are clustered near each other, I note that Renee and my father are seated with the Mayor of New York City, Michael Bloomberg as well as New York State's Governor, Andrew Cuomo.

_How nice for them_ I think sarcastically.

I, on the other hand, am seated beside a young socialite and her boyfriend, a leering forty-something year old man that keeps putting his hand on my knee when he speaks to me, and two other people that look decidedly drunk already. 

Conversation flows between the guests that are familiar with each other as a sumptuous, five-source meal is served. My culinary palate has been widened by Chef Masaharu Morimoto's fine cuisine, but my dining experience comes to an abrupt end when I feel Mr. Handsy creep his fingers from my knee up to my thigh.

My hand grips his … hard, telling him, in no uncertain terms, my desire. He has the grace look apologetic which I am grateful for. I am beyond thankful when he releases his hold and I take that as my cue to leave the table. Walking through the ballroom's double doors, I exhale a long pent-up breath and inhale the natural outdoorsy scents.

Being out here makes the claustrophobic feeling, I've felt since this morning, melt away. My eyes take in the lighting dropping from the varying tree branches transforming this deck into a magical place. I twirl around, imaging that my broad-shouldered man, whose smell is captivating and makes my mouth water, is with me … dancing with me.

I get lost in the movements as I can see him dip me then picks me back up, looking deeply into my eyes as if, he's about to—

Her laughter floats to where I am and I snapped back to reality. I realize that if someone happens to stumble on me that I would look strange dancing with myself. Now, I can hear _his_ voice … it's not near, but it's not too far either.

I know I shouldn't be, but I can't help being pea-green with jealousy. The color of my feelings matches the eyes of my new brother-in-law, Edward Cullen. Walking away from the door where I can hear _their_ happiness, I chuckle at my internal mind's feeble attempt at humor.

Walking toward the railing, I peer over and am met with nothing but darkness below, but when I look off into the horizon I see the Hudson River and parts of New Jersey. My mind remembers the bits and pieces I've heard about my sister's husband.

_He is a transplant from California. _I overheard this from my father right after Rosalie mentioned his name at dinner one night.

His company, Cullen Inc., is a global company that provides technical security to various firms. I've heard that his business acumen is unparalleled and his management style is as unique as the former General Electric CEO, Jack Welch. It's hinted in news articles, I've read since hearing of Rosalie's engagement, that his personal drive for his company to remain the top in its field is based on his need to legitimize himself and his work.

_I don't know_ _about his upbringing or any familial ties he may have._ _All I know is that __he magically appeared one day on Forbes' Most Richest list __and I'm happy about that__. _Those are definitely the first things Renee is quick to tell her friends.

I circle the edges of the terrace, running my fingers along the cool limestone ledge. I remember Rosalie boasting that she was walking along Fifth Avenue when _he_ was exiting his chauffeur driven car. They had accidentally bumped into each other, she'd recounted one the same night I learned he was from California. In a matter of moments, or so it seemed to me, I was informed there would be a wedding in two months' time, and the rest is history.

I lean back on the ledge and take in the April sky and am grateful for it's cooling temperature. I see the twinkling stars that light up the sky and my mind rushes over the other things Renee had said about him in my presence.

_He's new money _... whatever that means.

_His marriage to __a Swan__will authenticate his wealth and secure his social position, because our family is from old money. _

Old money, new money. They are all the same to me. Money affords one to be the master of one's own life; lead rather than follow; and money makes you very, _very_ relevant.

A blind person can see how well they suit each other. They are both statuesque. He's four years older than her twenty-eight years. Her eyes can compete with the bluest of sapphires while his unusual shade of green exudes confidence and intelligence. She'll be a valued addition to him on important business meetings, helping him make partnerships and securing business ventures because she knows the appropriate social cues and gestures to extend.

_She's our, no, she's my savior. I should to be happy for her_ I berate myself mentally. Looking down at my feet, at the very intricate tile work, I chuckle, thinking, _it's a little hard to be happy for someone who—_

"What are you doing out here?"

The strong timbre in his voice invades my ears, and I know that no matter where I am I will always know the sound of his voice. A gentle spring breeze blows some of my hair into my face, and I take a moment to tuck the loose strands behind my ear as well as to calm myself.

Turning around, I plaster on the same smile I've had since this fiasco of a morning began for me.

"I was trying to get a breath of fresh air."

He steps further under the soft light overhead. He dangles a wine glass in his hand, and his bow tie is undone.

_He looks good._

"You're Rosalie's sister."

His statement is so self-assured that I swallow down the lump that formed the instant I heard his voice, choking out a garbled, "Yes."

He stares deep into my eyes, and I delude myself into thinking that my name is on the tip of his tongue; however, his continued silence is probably due to him hopelessly searching his memory bank for my name. The longer he remains silent, the more I know he simply doesn't remember it. After all, Rosalie only introduced me one other time. 

_Irrelevant__, __after all, is who I am._

I extend a hand in his direction. "I'm—"

He ignores my hand, coming closer to me. "I know who you are, Isabella."

The corner of his lips lift seductively, and he takes a sip of his drink. The way he says my name makes me feel like I'm floating on air. If only my name rolling off his tongue can do that, I hesitate to _even_ imagine what—

Interrupting my train of thought, he inquires, "Are you enjoying the evening's festivities?"

The automatic response I would have made die on my lips when I see his predatory gaze. I take a small step backward because suddenly, he's too close for comfort. His eyes sweep over my body slowly as if inspecting a newly acquired addition to his collection.

I realize that I'm encouraging him, and whatever _this_ is, by not speaking. So I say the first thing that pops into my head, in hopes of filling the awkward silence.

"Congratulations. You and Rosalie will be very happy."

Another sip.

Another slow perusal of my body.

"You think?"

"Yes, most certainly," I reply, and since I've also been trained to extol Rosalie's virtues, I continue,

"She's charming, educated, and beautiful. You guys will have gorgeous babies."

He's now in front of me. I'm trapped between his body and the stone railing pressing into my back.

He drains his wine glass, putting it on the ledge beside me.

"And what about you?"

He runs an index finger along my jawline. I shiver, involuntarily. He chuckles darkly seeing my body's reaction to his nearness.

I straighten to my full height, but I still have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "What about me?"

"What are you like, Baby Girl?"

_What am I like? What an odd question._

"I'm irrelevant."

"Nothing irrelevant about what I'm looking at ..." he trails.

"Yo, E," a deep voice calls from the double, glass doors that lead into the ballroom.

Edward takes a few steps backward. I relish the fact I no longer have to crane my neck to see him, but I mourn the loss of his body heat.

"Darling, there you are. What are you doing out here?"

Rosalie's silky voice is a cold reminder that I am who told him I am. Being irrelevant is the sum total of my existence on this earth.

Since Edward has me beat by about a foot and a half, Rosalie has yet to see that he has company … me.

Her arms slowly come from behind him, but his eyes intently look at me. Even though I'm not experienced, I think I read the look of longing in his eyes. She whispers something into his ear, garnering a small smile from him as he leans down to hear.

That's when she sees me.

"What are you doing here?" She steps to his right in a slight defensive position, scowling at me.

Edward's eyes take on an interesting glint, almost as if he wants to see a catfight or something.

"Nothing … I came to … um … get some fresh air," I stammer.

Her eyes volley between me and her husband. He doesn't deign to respond to her earlier question or give an explanation for his current location, and for some reason she doesn't repeat herself.

"You should leave … run along and stop bothering my guests," she commands, arching her brow as if daring me to defy her.

I don't acknowledge that I've heard her as I quickly walk around both of them and pass the burly man by the doors.

_I have to stay away from him._

**A/N:**Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot (remove spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter.


	5. Chapter 4 - An Indecent Proposal

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

May 19, 2012

"Bella!" Renee screams.

"Coming," I yell from the kitchen.

"Bella!" Renee screeches.

At that sound, I know to haul ass. She's been doing that lately, ever since Daddy died.

Right after Rosalie's wedding, Daddy began complaining of chest pains. About a week ago, Renee found him stiff and cold in their bed. The funeral was well attended, as mourners came to pay their last respect, I guess for the last real (male) heir part of one of New York's old and prominent families. I overheard Rosalie grumbling about having to curtail her honeymoon to return for Daddy's burial. She told Renee that it ruined a time which should have been only about her.

I could say that I was surprised by my sister's views, but I've learned not to be shocked by her selfish actions or the sheer ridiculousness she spews.

Even though Daddy was an emotional recluse when it came to nurturing our relationship, I had no idea how much of a buffer he was between Renee and her hatred toward me. It's only been a week since his death, but Renee's abhorrence about my continued presence in her home is all she ever complains about. She says it on the telephone to her friends. She says it when I am cooking meals, washing dishes or doing her laundry.

"Yes?" I ask, entering what she calls the sitting parlor.

"I require more tea, Bella."

Seated to her right is a bemused looking Edward, and behind him is his silent, burly bodyguard who is looking out the window obviously bored by what has been transpiring.

I refill her teacup, making sure not to put too much and only one cubed sugar. _Sugar is the devil she's __quick to tell me every day at breakfast. _

Renee waves her hand dismissively, indicating for me to return to the kitchen. I turn to exit, but behind me I hear a heated exchange between them that ends with a huff from Renee.

"Isabella, sit," he commands.

Hesitantly, I pivot and point to myself as if there's another Isabella in the room_._

I take a seat across from him, looking around nervously. Renee casually sips **from **her tea**cup** while his eyes bore into mine as they seemingly searchfor the answer to an unsolvable math equation. His smirk reflects what a mirror would: my eyes are filled with interest … interest in him. Seeing his reaction, I sit up taller in the chair and pretend that he has no effect on me.

"Ren … um, what is this all about?"

_I must remember not to call her by her first name or another five finger handprint will beautify my face like last week._

I touch my cheek in remembrance, and something briefly flashes across Edward's eyes, but it was gone so quickly that I'm sure I imagined it.

She puts her teacup on the table in front of her. "Care to enlighten her?" she prompts, turning her body to face him.

"I've come to offer you a proposal."

"Really? What is it?" I question, chuckling which I hoped would lighten the tense mood I feel in the room.

"How would you like to work for me?"

_Work?_

_That elusive thing, long since denied to me because of this bitch of economy we're currently in, which would ensure my freedom and independence?_

Dumbly, I repeat, "Work?"

"Yes."

He bends, whispering in Renee's ear. The color that sweeps her face is not good, and I'm left wondering what the hell he said to her. She quickly stands, huffs, and slinks out of the room. I think she mutters something along the lines of, "Use her up for all I care."

But, I'm sure I misheard.

He gives a slight nod to the man behind and instantly we're left in the room as the doors are drawn closed.

"How do you do that?"

He uncrosses his legs, looking me directly in the eyes. "Do what?"

"Without saying a word or raising your voice, you have people do exactly what you want them to. How do you do that?"

He looks at me again, as if seeing me for the first time, before answering, "I demand to be seen."

I shake my head in confusion as to how he's able to accomplish being 'seen'. He makes it seem so easy as if it's something as instinctual as breathing. He must think his answer is sufficient because he doesn't elaborate. Dropping my need for further clarity, I get back to the reason why I'm seated in front of him.

"You mentioned work. What does it entail?"

He stands and walks over to the side table that has the teapot and pitcher of water. My eyes greedily follow his precise movements. I take in the sharp creases in his suit pants, the tailored perfection of his suit jacket that hugs his shoulders just right, and the sheen on his shiny, black shoes.

"Water?"

"Um … no, thank you."

He pours some out despite my refusal. He hands me the glass and our fingertips graze as I take it from him. The hairs of my arm stand up, and I try to control the shiver that runs throughout my body. He sits beside me this time.

"You know, you and I have a lot in common."

I snort, in an unladylike manner, over my disbelief about his statement.

He's a god among men, because of his wealth; while I'm part of the common folk, because of my lack of wealth.

_We _have nothing in common.

His laughter ends my thoughts, and I angle my body toward him, becoming more intrigued. I'm tired of his games, if he's even playing any. His covert looks that simultaneously say too much, but reveals too little, and his sly innuendos that leave me perplexed have made me tired.

"What kind of work is it you have in mind, Mr. Cullen?"

"The kind where you're spread eagle under me, Ms. Swan?" He smirks.

The water chokes me, and suddenly he's in front of me and knocking on my back with some force. My eyesight is blurred by the water in them, and a lone tear trickles down my face. Kneeling, he wipes it away with a handkerchief.

His face is millimeters from mine. I can smell the faint scent of the coffee he consumed sometime today, the mint he probably used to mask the smell, and his cologne that inundates my senses.

I'm sure my face registers shock, indignation, and a lack of comprehension. He smiles, and I'm discombobulated by the whiteness of his teeth, and how soft his succulent, pink lips look.

"So, what do you say?" he inquires, placing his large hands on my waist.

I'm rendered speechless, and I'm rarely in the position when I have _nothing_ to say. Since he's chosen not to filter himself, I follow suit.

"What about your wife … my sister?"

"What about her?" he flippantly replies, exhaling some of his sweet breath in my face.

"Won't she have," I pause, searching for the right way to refer to his proposal. "Something to say about this 'work'?"

"Let me worry about her. All you need to do is give me an answer."

I'm mute. My ragged breaths intermingle with his more easy ones. With a mere question, he's seducing me; dear God, help me, because he's succeeding if the hitches in my breathing is a sign.

"I knew I'd chosen well, Baby Girl. Some things never change." His words are muffled into my neck, and they confuse me.

I feel his hands at the sides of my shirt, and his fingers are on my bare waist. Now, I wished I had not dressed in such a thin cotton shirt.

_Maybe the fact that he can see my bra makes him think I would ever consider—_

He sucks on a spot right below my ear that I will now label as my erogenous zone. The forceful tugging on my skin by his lips smashes my inner monologue-ing to nothingness. I feel him drawing circles with his thumb on my stomach, and the thought briefly runs through my mind about not knowing the real power of thumb rubbing. Warm, large hands creep further upward toward my ribcage, right under the bone of my push-up bra.

"Hold this." He nods to my shirt which is, now, bunched up my chest.

I comply.

I can't _not_ do what he requests.

I feel like I'm in a haze, a Cullen-induced haze. Shirt grasped in one hand, I see the question lurking in his eyes about the bra clasp's location.

"Front," I murmur, wishing he'd find it already.

He makes quick work of the clasp. The tiny clicking sound overshadows my thumping heartbeat. He frees my breasts from their confines, and I can no longer breathe as I try to anticipate his next move, hoping he does something that I've never experienced. There is utter silence as his eyes greedily roam over my form, and for once, I am not embarrassed by my body. He palms both globes, almost testing their weight in his hands.

"Mouth-watering." He looks directly at me while tracing my lower lip with his finger. "Everything about you, Isabella, is simply delectable. You grew up to be beautiful"

I capture his finger in my mouth, sucking it as if it's my favorite, flavored lollipop.

His head bends toward my chest and my own drops backward, giving him better access to what he and I both want him to do.

He whispers something, but it's too low for me to hear, on my heated flesh.

Warmth.

That is all I feel as his mouth closes, firmly, over a nipple.

"Oh, God."

"Not God. Only me." I feel his grin on my skin as he brushes his lips between the valley of my breasts, going to the other nipple.

He takes his time, lavishing equal attention to both. I think I hear a growl, but I'm unsure of most things in this moment, even simple things like my name.

All I am sure about is that I do not want him to stop.

"You like this?"

He pushes both of my breasts together, and I look down seeing his mouth attach themselves to both nipples.

His seems to sniff the air before sucking the meatier portion of a breast, "I know you like it because I can smell you. Are you dripping for me?"

I squirm in my chair but give him an affirmative nod.

"You have to tell me an answer if you want this to continue."

I nod again.

"Use your words, Isabella," he states, chuckling.

Little did I know that my soon-to-be uttered, one word would change the course of the rest of _our_ lives.

"Yes," I moan out, silently praying he wouldn't stop.

There's a slight rap on the door followed by a muffled, "E …"

The voice coming through the door sounds like the same one from Rosalie's and Edward's reception. We both turn our head in the direction of the still closed door. Instantly, his hands drop from my breasts and, even though I'm not sure how I can, I _feel_ him retreating inside himself … into someone else.

He stands and steps back from me. "Pack whatever you need. We leave in fifteen minutes," he tells me brusquely.

"Huh?"

I'm still far gone in my Cullen-induced haze, so it takes my body and brain a bit to catch up to where he is right now.

_When did he walk over to the windows?_

He looks to have quickly readjusted his mental and physical state while I'm still a puddle of slushy nerves, and am trying to figure out how my positive reply to his request suddenly turned him around so abruptly.

Another knock, this one louder, stalls the tongue-lashing I was going to lay on him followed by my very forceful retraction of my statement.

The door cracks open a sliver, and the burly man push his head in. "E, um, I hate to bother you, but it's 1:30 P.M. You have that meeting in an hour." He doesn't look in my direction and closes the door quietly.

Muttering to myself about my idiotic behavior as well as my response, I hastily adjust my clothing. I stand with every intention of telling him to go fuck himself, but the next words out of his mouth seals my fate, and I realize that Renee has sold me to the devil himself.

"I'm not playing games. You come willingly or unwillingly, it makes no difference to me. I've already paid a King's ransom to Renee."

_King's ransom?_

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran, my beta, rocks! If you see her on Facebook, give her a shout-out. Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter.


	6. Chapter 5 - Welcome to Hell

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

August 24, 2012

"Bella!"

An insistent bell ringing, attached to the sound system in my room, follows her scream.

Blowing out a breath, I quickly ascend the steps, dreading what will await me while praying for an angel to swoop down and rescue me from my very own, personal hell.

But, since this is not a fairytale, no such thing will happen.

I reach her door in record speed. Then, straighten my back to gather some courage, and knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

I wish I had the gumption to yell: "_Who the fuck do you think it is?"_ But, instead, I say calmly, "It's Bella, Mrs. Cullen."

"You may enter."

Her eyes doesn't leave the pages of the magazine in her hands as she announces, "I want to wear my Stuart Weitzman's, Diamond Dream stilettos. Find them."

"They should be with your other silver shoes, Rosalie."

_Damn it!_

I instantly recognize the slip of my tongue and wish I could catch back my words and push them back into my lips … un-uttered.

She closes the magazine with a loud, exasperated sound from her lips. Then, she stands to her feet, coming toward me with flaring nostrils that make her resemble a bull readying for a fight.

"_He's _told you to address me as Mrs. Cullen. You," she huffs out, pointing at me, "are my employee, not my friend."

"Yes, Mrs. Cullen." I shuffle toward her massive walk-in closet.

"Those shoes cost fifty grand … more than you make! Oh wait, you don't earn any money because you're just the slut-whore that's here to scratch any of my husband itches."

Her cackling follows me into her closet, and if I could blush, my entire face would rival the ripest red tomatoes. All I can do is swallow the insult and find her shoes.

Why bring me here only to leave me for three, goddamn months without so much as a by-your leave or an explanation?

**FLASHBACK to **May 19, 2012

_As soon as the car stops in his circular driveway, I'm punishingly kissed, and told to go inside._

_He comes in a few minutes later, calling down Rosalie._

_He makes a point of introducing us, as if we've never met. "Rosalie, Isabella. Isabella, Mrs. Cullen. She is to be my …" There's a pregnant pause that even the town idiot could read between. "Personal assistant."_

_He goes upstairs quickly, and descends a few minutes later, laden with duffle bags and suitcases._

_She shows no sign of disagreement, voices no questions, or raises any__concerns. There are no tender goodbyes, no loving embraces, or any mention of his return date; only a slam of the door, and the peeling sound of tires_

_Her heels clink on the marble tile, as she approaches me with a humorless smile. "Welcome to your hell, personal assistant," she mocks._

**END FLASHBACK**

I look down at her as she peruses the magazine while lounging on her expensive looking chaise, and I wonder if we could have ever become real sisters. Sometimes it's hard for me to remember we share the same blood.

Unfortunately, even as I unwind the figurative hand of time, and attempt to recall a time when Rosalie exhibited even the slightest sisterly affection toward me, I draw a blank. She has always been distant, dismissive, and disinterested. I remember as a little girl, trying my best to fight my way into her heart, or even at the very least, to be considered a potential playmate.

I have a weird outer body experience as I see my six-year old self running after my ten-year old sister.

"_Rosalie! Rosalie, wait up."_

_Her long, lanky legs were much swifter and surer than mine. No matter how hard I ran after her, all I am left with was her bell-like laughter teasing me, un-mercilessly, like an elusive piece of stray hair that tickles your nose._

_Giving up, I dropped down into the brown mud, not caring about my dress._

_I just don't get why Rosalie won't be my friend._

_"So, you're the Black Swan?" I hear__d__ a voice mutter._

_Even as I turn my head in search of the voice, all I am left seeing is a shocking pair of emerald-colored eyes, and the flapping end of a skirt as the voice disappears inside our stable._

_Black Swan … What is that? _

_My six-year old brain racks itself for the meaning of Black Swan._

_I am no Black Swan. _

_I remember my name because this is what my daddy calls me even though my sister and her mother refuse to use my name at all._

_My name is Isabella Swan._

I wish I could go back to my six-year old self and tell her that Rosalie would never be her friend, and to give up hoping that she would. I would like to tell my younger self that even as she is desperate for a sister, Rosalie is as desperate _not_ to be a sibling.

But, I can't. 

A shake of my head brings me back to the present.

I am not six-years old running after Rosalie, nor I am the woman _he_ called his personal assistant over two months ago.

I am Rosalie's … well, I am not sure what I am to Rosalie outside of being an irrelevant being, who she has to tolerate.

Bending, I place the shoe she requested in her line of vision.

"You may leave," she waves her hand dismissively, breaking me out of my trip down memory lane.

Rosalie has proven, time and again, how truthful her words are. Hell is where I'm living, and apparently, where I'm staying. No instructions, at least to me, were left, so whatever whims and fancies Rosalie conjures—and trust me, she has a vivid imagination, I now perform.

My workday begins at 6 A.M. in the kitchen helping Mrs. Cope, and ends about 7 P.M. after the housekeeping is completed. It's amazing, and tiresome, the amount of vacuuming, dusting, and other daily maintenance is needed to help keep a fifteen-bedroom, ten-bathroom, thirty-two thousand square foot home clean.**  
**

The wall clock tells me it's 6:45 P.M. I've finished dusting the Lladró collectible figurines as Mrs. Mallory, the head Housekeeper, assigned me, and I am thankfully done for the day. My knees protest as I stand, and it feels as if I've been kneeling on gravel for two weeks.

I walk pass the numerous rooms with their fancy names, and head to where Rosalie is kind enough to allow me to lay my head. Taking a quick shower, I put on my pajama, and burrow under the comforter, after cranking up the air conditioner.

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran, my beta, is the absolute best! She puts up with my craziness and tells me when I am off my rocker. If you see her on Facebook, give her a shout-out. Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter.


	7. Chapter 6 - His Personal Assistant

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

The below is very early in the morning following the events from chapter five.

The stifling heat rouses me from my sleep. Rising up, I wipe my forehead and am not surprised by the sweat I see in the palm of my hand. The room has darkened considerably, and I feel eyes watching me, making the hairs on my arms stand up.

"You look hot, Baby Girl."

I gasp, turning my head in his direction. I don't know why I'm excited. I try not to think about the butterflies instantly floating around in my stomach.

I clutch the sheet to my chin, trying to shield my body from his gaze as I realize what no bra in this heat will do to my shirt.

"You're back?" I ask hesitantly.

"Did you miss me?" He chuckles, swinging his leg that's crossed at his knee.

I open my mouth to answer; maybe share a smart quip, but his next words surprise me.

"I missed you … too much, actually."

The admission sounds like it's wrung from the deep recesses inside him. The closingof my mouth makes a weird noise in the silence that follows his revelation. There is no way this can be true.

He leans to turn a light on, which now illuminates the outline of his body, yet his face is still obscured.

A crooked smile and a bent finger beckon me to him. I shake my head in the negative.

The smile drops a bit, but the finger action is more forceful … insistent … it's amazing how much command he can put in a finger movement. I shake my head again, pulling the sheet further up my body.

"Don't make me come get you, Isabella."

Gathering my courage, I swing my leg over the bed, and walk toward him with my head held high. I think I hear a growl … but that could be my stomach since I'd skipped dinner.

"Fuck," he whispers, groaning as I stop in front of him.

My arms automatically hug my midsection ... as a way to hide my disgusting body. Sure, I'd lost a few pounds, but I'm still no size four. He quickly stands up, and I'm forced to take a step back. His hand encourages mine to release their death grip from my waist. My hands dangle at my sides. He circles and stops behind me.

"You should be proud of your body, Baby Girl. It's spectacular," his breath blows on the back of my hair. "And keep your head held high. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

He plants a kiss on one shoulder then the next before he takes a seat in the chair again. No one has ever told me there is anything about me to be proud of. And I'm about to share this with him, but he says a mouthful next.

"I need you. I hate to admit that, but, I need _you._"

I've never been needed before.

By anyone, yet this man needs me_._

His statement captures my heart, squeezing out the hate I'd stored up these few months.

"Kneel in front of me, Baby Girl."

"I … um, I can't," I tell him nervously.

His eyes take on a hard glint. "Can't or won't, Isabella?"

"I … can't," I reply, looking down at my knees.

_Hopefully, he sees my extreme reddened knees from the tasks Rosalie has given me._

His eyes follow mine, and he surprises me with his next question. But, I need to learn not to be surprised by anything this enigma of a man chooses to do or say.

"What the fuck happened to your knees?"

I shrug my shoulders, because he should know what the hell is going on in his own house.

"Is that supposed to be an answer?" he whisper-yells, leaning forward.

"It's nothing. I got it while cleaning."

"Cleaning?" This he yells, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, cleaning; cleaning your damn house, every square inch of it for the last sixty days," I tell him haughtily.

He chuckles.

He actually laughs at me; a deep, from the belly kind of a laugh, shoulders shaking and everything.

"Stop laughing at me," I yell as anger and humiliation rise up inside me.

"I knew you were a spit fire. Show me that spark again," he requests, standing up.

Taking a couple of steps back even as he continues coming toward me, he loosens his tie, shrugging off his coat; all the while forcing me backward. When the back of my knees hit the bed, I know I'm in for it.

"Fuck," I mutter.

"That's a start. Now, say it louder, Baby Girl."

The lust that rolls off his tongue along with his unabashed cockiness, forces the word from my lips again.

"Fuck."

"No. Like this … fuck."

The movement of his teeth captivates me as they meet his bottom lip. The feel of his breath that escapes his mouth as he finishes the pronunciation, leaves me wanting for more … just more of him. If I had on panties, they'd be soaked; as it is the space between my upper thighs acts as a reservoir for my essencethat's leaking from my pussy lips.

"Now, I'm going to _fuck_ you."

And queue the Cullen-induced haze that leaves me tongue-tied. All I can do is shake my head in the affirmative, because despite all the shit I've endured in the last three months, I desperately want him.

"Have you ever given a blow job?"

"No," I choke out, embarrassed my body's reaction to the question.

"Good. That's very good." He pauses, trailing a finger over the scalloped edge of my shirt. "Ever had your pussy eaten?"

I shake my head side to side, becoming more turned on by his blunt inquiries, and extremely dirty words.

He rewards me with his crooked grin that I'm starting to like seeing on his lips. He hooks his hand in the elastic waistbandof my shorts, pushing his hands down … down … and bingo, his index and middle finger rub on my clit.

"I'm glad you didn't give away _my_ pussy, Baby Girl."

His hand slips further downward, just as my body releases some more essence.

I jerk back a little, but his hand grabs my mound keeping me in place. "It's not yours," I mumble, eyeing him.

"Yet; it's not mine yet," he says, emphasizing the last word while trying to push the two fingers inside.

An unpremeditated groan leaves my lips as I feel his fingers stretching me.

"You feel … tight," he whispers, changing his tactic and inserting only one finger. "Really tight … hmm, I can … only get up to my knuckle," He moans, "Inside you."

His finger slips from my body. Another moan—this one, combined, from he and I, sounds desperate—voices my body's protestation and his seemingly desperation.

"Clothes off," he demands, toeing off his shoes, hands on his belt.

In an instant I'm naked, and he's walking toward me, predatorily, and gloriously naked, too. My hands unconsciously cover my breasts and my stomach, and I wish I had another to cover the apex between my legs.

The bed dips, and I turn my head away from him, in dire mortification that he's seeing me like this—fat and unsightly.

I feel him looking on, and unwillingly, I turn my head in his direction.

A sad smile is on his lips. "We're going to have to work on that."

I'm not sure what he's referring to, but the next few hours I spend with him are his first step in helping me see my beauty.

He kneels between my legs, forcing them open. "You're so beautiful, Isabella. Let me show you just how beautiful you are, please?" The last word is broken and spoken softly … saying more than just, please.

He bends his head between my thighs, and I can't help it, I rise on my elbow to watch him. Of their own accord, my legs part even further, and when he chuckles at my action, I'm not the least bit embarrassed.

His head dips further between my parted thighs, and the sniffing sound I hear let me know he's taking a whiff of me.

"You smell good enough to eat," he announces, licking his lips.

I lick my own, imaging the lust in his eyes is for me.

For irrelevant me.

Without preamble, he spreads my lips apart, and his lips lock onto my clit. His tongue swirls around it, doing moves rivaling the best figure eight ice skater. Then, his magic tongue dives into me. I feel his middle finger enter me slowly, there's a slight burning, but my body adjust quickly. I move in rhythm with his precise strokes. I can hear the wet sounds he's wringing from my body. Then, with no warning he stops sucking my clit and looks at me.

His fingers continue moving in and out of me. He brings his head up, taking one nipple, and then the other into his mouth. My lower half continues to move with his finger pumps. He grins, kneeling back between my legs. His intense stare captures my own. We're both panting, looking at each other as my flagrant desire fills the air. He eases another finger inside me. He positions his fingers as he sees fit, most likely in search of something, maybe my g-spot, which he readily finds. The base of his hand massages my clit as he begins to tickle the spot.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

I feel his fingers. I drop my head back as the tension builds in my stomach, my walls clench around his fingers, and I try to breathe through my nose.

"Just let go, Baby Girl."

I have no time to concentrate on anything but the intense feeling he's creating. It builds and builds, propelling me over the edge. His fingers leave my body, and he moves them with well- practiced skill over my clit. The movements sweep me away, pushing me deliciously over ... and over. So much so that I alternate between moaning and yelling my joy.

"Beautiful."

There's happiness in his voice.

I feel his lips on me as he hungrily laps up the juices my body has expelled. My legs begin to shake, again, and even if I wanted to, I can't stop the build-up. I try to push his head away from between my thighs.

"More," he demands, sucking on my clit while pushing his fingers back inside me. He clamps one hand over a thigh to keep them apart.

My whole body is on overdrive, and my body responds again.

"Look at me," he roughly commands.

I open my droopy eyes, and see him lick his fingers clean.

He grabs his cock, pushing one of my legs up a bit, bending it at the knee.

"Now, I'm going to fuck _my_ pussy."

His head stretches me; I wiggle in discomfort because I've never had anything inside me beside a tampon.

"Wait," I beg.

He eases more of himself inside. He doesn't acknowledging my request as he pushes forward again.

"It's too much," I mutter, biting my lip to stop from groaning in pain. "You're too … ow, too big."

He continues sliding forward. His measured movements dull the pain from a moment ago, and now there's not much resistance because I'm so wet.

"_You_ were made to take _my_ dick, and only my dick, Baby Girl."

He pushes forward. I yell out at the sensation of being full, almost too full, it's the only thing I can concentrate on. I'm not sure about hymens and losing one's virginity. The romance novels I've read painted being deflowered as romantic, sweet, and most definitely, pain-free … they lied.

He doesn't give me time to adjust to him. He begins to move.

A swivel of his hip.

Pulling out.

Pushing in.

A kiss on my neck.

A massage on my breast.

A swirl on my nipple.

And my body responds to all of it.

"That's it, Baby Girl, I feel you getting wetter for me."

I bend my other knee, because everything he is doing feels sogood.

My hands grip his ass. The motion begs for him to stay inside, giving him permission to do with me as he wills. My body moves with his … we are in sync. Sweat drips from his chin onto my forehead. I reach up and suck his Adam's apple, and a groan is pushed from his lips. Some moans … from him … from me … our sounds are intertwined now. He grabs my hip, squeezing it, but not painfully, pulling me toward him.

"You feel so good … too good, I knew it would be like this," he confesses, almost like he didn't want to.

His head is thrown back, and his hair is slick with sweat. I open my eyes and am in awe; I can't believe that I am doing this to him.

Irrelevant me.

His head comes down, pushing mine to the side. His mouth latches onto the sensitive spot on my skin, sucking hard. Then, he uses his teeth to lightly scrape along a vein in my neck. A swirl of his hips has me clutching harder onto his shoulder blades; he hikes my legs even higher, going deeper than before, and now I'm seeing stars.

"Too much …"

"Never too much. Not for us, Baby Girl." His words don't interfere with his lower body's movements.

I can't talk.

Words are useless right now. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip. That feeling from minutes ago is back. I near an edge and I badly want to go over it.

"Are you going to come for me?"

His question triggers something deep within me … deep inside me … my vaginal walls clamp down on him, hard, as I scream his name. I can't help it. He gives one more push forward, and the intense feeling is back. I grab a fistful of his sweaty hair, coming again as he empties inside of me, grabbing my ass in the process.

A few long minutes pass and he rolls off of me. Harsh breathing and rapid heartbeats are all that's audible in the room.

A bell begins to ring through my sound system, alerting me it's time to get up for chores.

_Damn, is it 6 A.M. already?_

My body protests after yesterday's activities and my most recent ones with Edward.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to get up … there's stuff to do," I reply, looking at him.

"No." He doesn't even rise; just pats the space beside him.

I lie back on my own pillow. "No," I whisper timidly.

"That's not what you're here for."

_And that was that._

That would not be the last day Edward would confuse and confound the hell out of me.

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran, my beta, is a beta among betas (at least to me) and rocks harder than a rock star! If you see her trolling on Facebook, pester her, she loves it. Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter


	8. Chapter 7 - The Boy with No Name

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

**October 31, 2012**

Since Edward's return, I've been moved out of the mansion and into the cottage behind it. Now, instead of cleaning Rosalie's house, I'm an expert at pleasing her husband.

He's a demanding lover.

He's rarely gentle and is always unyielding.

And yet, he's surprisingly very giving—not of his heart—but of the varying orgasmic plateaus he's made his personal mission for me to reach. There's not a sex position we've not tried. Every place on my body has been thoroughly introduced to his thick cock, lean fingers, adroit tongue, and the wicked toys he purchases.

"I'm going to continue the story," he declares, lightly running his hand over my ass.

I groan and am rewarded with a hard swat on my posterior.

"Why?" I ask, lifting myself up to look at him. "It'sso damn sad." I touch the side of his face.

"Willie Nelson once told me; '_it doesn't hurt to feel sad from time to time_'; now, do you remember where we were?"

A gasp escapes my lips. "You know Willie Nelson!"

_Who the hell is this man?_

I feel the rumbling of his laughter as his stomach muscles tense and the twitching of his lips as they are pulled upward into my favorite emotion he rarely shows: a smile.

"Is that _all_ you heard?"

I stare at him as if he has two heads. "You know Willie Nelson," I exclaim, lowering my voice as if their 'friendship' is a secret.

He squeezes my chin, shaking his head. His lips hover close to mine. He breathes, "You are a strange one … now," He pecks my lips then nibbles on the corner, "Where was I?"

I lean in for another kiss, which he obliges, then rack my brain as to the place we had left off. "You told me about his parents that loved him; about their lack of money, and about their tragic deaths when he was six years old. You told about his trepidation to live with his only living relative, an alcoholic aunt. You told me that the only reprieve in the boy's life was being taken to the aunt's work, where she was a maid for one of the town's wealthiest family," I remind him.

"_One day the boy with no name—"_

"Why doesn't he have a name? Everyone has a name, Edward" I mutter, asking the same question I've asked since he began his story the night of my birthday.

"Stop interrupting.As I was saying,_ this family wasn't so wealthy by the time the boy met them. But their name still held power. __A____type of power that__ could open doors __even as their money____was____dwindling__. Eventually, the boy got a job with the family too, working as a stable hand on the weekends and throughout the summer. His aunt told him, when he became thirteen, that it was time for him to stop being a burden and start contributing. All his money was spent at the local liquor store on his aunt's drink of choice, Grey Goose® Vodka. For two years, the boy pined away for the family's eldest daughter, loving this beauty from afar because he knew she was too good for him." _

"_Let's call her Delilah—"_

"Delilah? Like from the Bible?" My excitement shows, hearing a name for the first time.

_Instantly my mind's eye imagines a beautiful, manipulative, deceptive woman with a sharp instrument in her hands, poised to do insurmountable destruction._

"I guess …"

I shake the picture out of my head."But why does she get a name—"

"Because he's fucking irrelevant, Isabella!" he yells.

_There's that word. _

_The word that I have __felt__ all my life..._

_And, now I realize that there is a____common link between the boy with no name and myself. _

_… Our irrelevancy._

Even as I silently wrestle with hearing Delilah's name and witnessing Edward's outburst, my physical being is still aware of Edward and his emotional state. Somehow, after being with him for the past few months, I'm now in tune with his moods. Like now, I know to stay quiet, and perfectly still until he's gathered himself enoughto finish the story.

As if his outburst didn't happen—he gives no apology for his harsh words—he continues, staring up at the ceiling.

"_One summer—I think it was in __19__96—Delilah noticed him, but he was smart enough to stay away from temptation. But, eventually she wore him down. She was too beautiful, and he thought himself the luckiest person in their town that she wanted him, even if no one else could know about them. That's the one thing she made him promise: tell no one or their 'relationship' would end." _

"_One thing led to another, and they were making love rather quickly and constantly._ _They didn't know what the hell they were doing. Just two teenage kids, fucking like rabbits." _He pauses, breathing out his mouth.

"_He tried his best to make their brief time together enjoyable for them both. He looked at magazines, stole away to rent porno videos, all with the hopes of pleasuring her; because she deserved to be pleasured __and__deserved to be worshiped. He was successful because once he set his mind to something; he refused to fail at it. Close to the end of the summer, she came tearfully into the stable. Like the good lover he was, he inquired about her tears. She dropped a bomb that changed his entire life: she was pregnant. As soon as she uttered the three words, he'd already formulated a plan. They would marry, of course. Sure they were young, money would be an issue, and school would have to be worked out. But, he figured love could conquer all." _

"_He gleefully told her his plans, hugged her reassuringly, and dismissed away her stiffness in his arms. Then, he was pushed violently away from her as she dried her tears, and was told her plans. They were ending; she was having an abortion, and she'd be going to a boarding school in September."_

He turns to face me. We both lie on our sides; tears stream down my face for the boy with no name.

"_He begged her to reconsider. __He even begged her to __stay. __He suggested that __maybe they could run away __and__ start a life with each other and their baby. He thought to himself that he was smart, and had graduated high school right after his fifteenth birthday—something __he'd never shared with her for some strange reason. He was currently trying to decide whether to take the full four-year scholarship being offered by New York University or Harvard. He'd planned on telling her all this, after they'd made love, that he had chosen New York University … to be closer to her." _His cool fingertip along my thigh draws my attention to his mouth. I scootcloser to him, needing his body heat to counteract against the coldness in his tone as he tells the story.

"_He told her what he had held back from her, and she laughed. She laughed boisterously in his face. Called him a liar and dumber than a box of rocks. She didn't believe he'd graduated early; after all, she was from the town's best family and had yet to graduate. She scoffed at his supposed scholarship. She used the words: non-existent scholarship. Each negative comment cut him deeper than the abusive words his aunt threw at him during her drunkenness. Delilah threw all the dreams and hopes he'd shared with her, in his face. She screamed about his nothingness, telling him that he was, and would always be, a nobody, and __that____he would never amount to anything beyond being a stable hand, or some other rich girl's____fuck buddy. Like a silly boy thinking she was the love of his life, he disregarded what she said, chalked it up to shock about their pregnancy, and tried, again, to convince her____of his good intentions toward her, and their budding family, if only she'd give him a chance. He used the one word that sealed his fate: love."_

His hand grips my face, a bit painfully.

"_She mocked him, continued to laugh at him. And he told me, that until the day he dies, her next words are imprinted on his soul: 'Love? You were just a fuck to pass the summer!' Saying that, she'd turned her back on him and that was the last time he saw her."_

He wipes the tears from my cheeks. His frigid hands remind me of the glacial treatment the boy with no name experienced at Delilah's hands … and her venomous mouth. My body shivers, violently, from both, even as the hair at nape of my neck stands up and goose bumps rise appear over my skin.

He pulls closer to me, drops his head on my forehead, and drapes an arm over my naked waist.

Lowering his voice to a decibel above a whisper, he tells me,___"He left the barn, and ran into the family's youngest daughter on the way out. Humiliated tears blurred his____vision, and in his haste to leave the godforsaken place that had caused him so much grief, he knocked them both over. She'd quickly gotten to her feet and came over to him while he was still knocked over in the dirt to apologize to him. She had long, flowing, mahogany-colored hair; eyes so brown that they looked black at a slight turn of her head; a heart-shape face; and skin that looked as smooth as rose petals. She asked him what was wrong, but instead of answering her, he asked for her name since it always escaped him. Her reply, he told me, would be indelibly etched in his memory."_

"_I'm irrelevant," she'd answered, "but what's the matter with you?"_

"_He never did answer her, he ran—like hell—the five miles from the family's home to his dingy one, all the while plotting his revenge on Delilah. When he reached his destination, he made a phone call, and three hours later, was heading toward Boston."_

"What happened to the boy with no name?" I mumble against his skin.

I hear the raindrops beating against the window and the winds howling fiercely outside; causing me to shiver again, even though I am tucked into Edward's side and nestled under the blanket.

"You know, we met so briefly—as two passers-by a couple years ago—so I'm not entirely sure. Maybe, he's now a man with no name like Delilah hoped, or maybe he became a man that demands to be seen."

_I wish there was something I could do for the boy in Edward's story _I muse, but instead I say aloud, "That's so …"

"Enough talking. I need you."

His lips crash into mine, his hands uncompromising and demanding on my flesh. I feel as if I'm being punished when he enters me; it's painful, and I yell my discomfort loudly in his ears.

"Ow!" I grab the sides of his face, forcing him to look at me. "Edward?"

His eyes look distant and glazed, not with unshed tears, but with something so elusive and rich with pain that I can't name.

I want to help him, but he moves inside of me, and I am reminded of my own physical pain.

Self-preservation kicks in and I jerk his face, harder, so hard that his jaw does an unusual jiggle. I'm not sure if it is the jiggling movement or the call of his name from my lips, but I am grateful when he's seeminglydragged out of whatever … from wherever … and, his eyes focus on me. Sorrow and regret, with a hint of bitterness, are at the very edges of his beautiful green eyes.

This timewhen he tenderly kisses me, I take it as his apology.

This time when he moves, it's slow, soft, and tender.

And,I'm once again dazzled into the infamous Cullen-induced haze, as his tongue enters my mouth, I can concentrate on nothing besides the passion he stirs inside of me

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran, my beta, rocks! If you see her on Facebook, give her a shout-out. Go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), to get a look at the pics from this chapter.


	9. Chapter 8 - Everything Hurts

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author. I have taken creative license in the description of _Khoon Bhari Maang_.

**February 14, 2013**

My favorite poet wrote it best: _'life for me ain't been no crystal stair; it's had tacks in it; and splinters; and boards torn up; and places with no carpet on the floor—bare.'_[1]

Too soon I would experience the harsh reality of thesewords.

But, right now I'm beaming from ear to ear. Not only am I happy because of the day—today is Valentine's Day—but, I have a big surprise planned for Edward later tonight. My finger trailsdown the binding of _Khoon Bhari Maang__[2]_, the book that inspired the 1983 epic mini-series, _Return to Eden_.

I hear the tell-tale sounds of heels and heavy boots trampling on the hardwood floor. Unfortunately, the footsteps are quickly approaching where I am inside the upstairs library.

_Shit!_

I push my body as close to the nearest wall, because I know—although I have never heard it from her lips—that _she _doesn't like for me to be in her house.

The footsteps stop.

And, it's as if time stands stills as my eyes take in the sun rays shining through the glass windows and the different dust particles that float in the air, threatening to tickle my nose and reveal my hidden position.

"So you want them both dead?" An unrecognizable male state.

I quickly tuck my nose inside the roomy peasant-style blouse as a particular stubborn dust flake choose this moment to lodge itself amongst my nose hairs. I feel as if I am battling wills with a determined individual rather than a speck of a dust … and, unfortunately, the speck win, as an escaped, but, muffled sneeze is forced from my nasal cavity.

Time stands still, again.

_Did they hear—_

Maybe the sneeze didn't happen or I was truly effective in masking its sound, because my internal agony about my potential discovery is cut short by a simple one syllable word.

"Yes."

A handclap, as if giddy by the three-letter word, is followed up with a coy laughter.

The first voice is masculine, though pitchy, making the owner sound more like he's just left his teenage years; but, this new voice is feminine and recognizable.

_Rosalie._

I hear aripping sound, then a grunt, and I realize too late that I'm an unwilling voyeur—though hidden—to their tryst.

_I have to get out of here._

Peeping from around my hiding spot while praying not to be seen, I notice they hadn't bothered to close the door all the way. _Probably because no one ever uses this library_ I silently think.

I stoop; slowly and noiselessly, crawling to the door … toward my escape.

"This is what you give him? No wonder he fucks someone else," the boy-man utters.

I'm too distracted, contemplating how I'm going to navigate my ass through the sliver of an opening they've left to pay attention to his words.

_I hope the noises from their lovemaking covers whatever sound this door is about to make._

Creak.

Time stops.

I hear no more sounds.

And I know I'm caught.

I don't stop. I rush out of the room.

Heavy footfalls are behind me. They are closing in on me quickly. It's almost like the person's breath is on my back. I pick up my speed, but try to slow as I near the stairwell. Hands are on my back, and for a moment, I think those hands are trying to stop me, but they shove me forward.The violent action reveals their true intention.

My foot slips and I see what lies in front of me, but I can't undo it. I tumble; head first, down the marble stairs with a carpet runner in its center, clutching myself around the middle.

Blissfully, in what seems like seconds, everything around me fades away.

***irrelevant***

The next thing I remember is being told I'm at Lennox Hill Hospital.

They ask me my emergency medical contact, and I yell outEdward's name.

They ask me how far along I am. I tell them fourmonths as a terrible contraction seizes me.

There is the sensation of being ripped from the inside out; the intense feeling of pressure is almost too much as if _everything_ inside of me needs to come out.

The reactionary curses that fly out of my lips are the only way I can express the pain I feel.

And I scream them out—inventing a few of my own—often and at anyone in hearing distance!

There is tugging and pulling; relief of pressure—thank God—and a nurse's encouraging words.

"Push," someone else commands.

With one last ounce of strength, I muster enough to do what I'm asked.

It takes me awhile to realize that I don't hear any mewling sounds. No newborn cries are heard; nothing but deafening silence.

"Call it."

A soft voice sadly whispers, "10:45 A.M."

**An hour later …**

The doctor tells me that my fall caused my miscarriage.

The nurses tell me that I'm still young and can try again.

All I feel is irrelevant.

There's not even a body I can hold. He was too small.

I can't cry.

All I can do is imagine.

So I imagine he's perfectly beautiful. I wonder if he'd have my eye color or Edward's.

Twenty minutes later, when a hospital staff member approach my bed to give me some sedatives, I yell like a banshee; screaming bloody murder, and threatening all kinds of bodily injury to anyone that dares come near me, again.

Edward arrives not five minutes after I've kicked another nurse out of the room.

He doesn't say anything. I'm quite sure he's been told about my horrid behavior. And, I can't make myself care.

The baby—who was to be my Valentine's gift to him— is now dead. And, all because of his wife's hatred for me.

I choose to continue looking at the wall in front of my bed.

I have nothing to show for all that hard work, but a dead baby.

Again … I'm irrelevant.

My womb is, also, irrelevant.

Hollow.

Empty.

Unsuccessful.

Useless … just like me.

"Talk to me, Baby Girl," he murmurs brokenly.

"Nothing to say." I sniff back some tears.

"We can … we can try …" He cracks his knuckles.

I whisper, "You're lying. You always liewhen you crack your knuckles."

There's a grunt of acknowledgment and I hear his footsteps and then I see him drawing up a chair in front of me.

"You know me so well."

A shrug of my shoulders should tell him I agree with his statement.

He comes closer to me.

I wish I had something_, anything _to show him. But, there's only my irrelevant self on this bed.

His hand touches my cheek. "He would have been beautiful; maybe have your eye color," he insists.

I decide to play along with him, holding reality at bay a little longer. "I bet he'd have your nose."

"I'd want him to have your mouth," he trails, outlining my mouth.

"I'd want him to have your strong jaw."

The tears prick my eyes, demanding to be released. But, I deny them just as God denied me my baby.

Everything hurts.

I hurt.

_This_ hurts.

All that goddamn pushing and ripping, and I have nothing but a lifeless baby who was not big enough to survive on its own.

I feel his arms gather me up. My cheek is peppered with kisses. All I care about is _my_ hurt; _my_ pain.

It's not until I feel something wet drop on my forehead thatit dawns on me that I'm not the only one crying _and_ hurting. The wails filled with deep regret are not just mine, nor are the belly-aching whimpers. They are a combination of both of us.

My arms tighten around his shoulder, pulling him toward me; trying to be the strength he needs while taking the little that he has to fuel me.

[1] _Mother to Son_, Langston Hughes, 1922

[2] _Khoon Bhari Maang _is really a 1988 Indian remake of 1983's_ Return to Eden_

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran is my beta and friend. She holds a special place in my heart. If you care, I am in the Dark and Twisted contest, go read **all** the entries here: www . fanfiction u / 4757629 / Dark-and-Twisted-Contest (remove the spaces.)

You know the routine, go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), if you want to look at the pics from this chapter.


	10. Chapter 9 - 'Interesting' Events

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

Beta'd but I tinkered, so any mistakes are my own.

**April 1, 2013**

It's been an interesting time, for a lack of a better descriptor. Not overly joyous, yet not overly sad either … only, _interesting. _

Rosalie's hatred for me burns brighter with each passing day, and she's becoming very caustic whenever we are forced to intermingle with each other in any social setting. And, my daily confusion about my feelings toward Edward continues to grow.

There are moments when I _think_ I hate him, like when he possessively kissed me in front of his stable hand because he thought I was being ogled by the younger man who was introduced to me as Riley. Or when he forced me to attend the funeral for our son knowing I did not want to be there.

Even still, there are moments when I _believe _I could like him. Like when he surprised me with the first edition of Howard Chandler Christy's classic _The American Girl,_ or when he presented me with a bouquet of pink Aster flowers. When I asked his reasoning about both gifts, he replied: 'Just because.'

Yet, again, there are moments when I _know_, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I love him. Like when we lay in bed at the cottage, and he thinks I've fallen asleep, and he whispers: "I'm sorry, Baby Girl, I should have come sooner. I should have done things differently."

***irrelevant***

**June 15, 2013**

My life here is getting harder.

Three weeks ago, there was a picture showing a dead fetus on the back door leading into the garden.

Two weekends ago, a scarlet, velvet A was left on my doorsteps while Edward was out of town.

And yesterday, I got ananonymous call threatening Edward's life if I don't leave.

I suspect Rosalie, but I have no proof she is behind any of this, and even if I did there would be no point in telling Edward. He's not going to leave her, which for the life of me is baffling. She obviously hates him with a passion. When I dare gather enough courage to ask him about the future, his response is: "I'm not done yet."

As I said: baffling.

The longer I'm here, the more my mind plays tricks on me. Like the day in the library, I know the laughing voice was Rosalie's, but, who was the man she was with, and what did their brief, yet coded conversation mean?

She couldn't, I mean, she wouldn't hurt anyone. My sister is many things, but she's _not _a killer; at least I don't think she is. 

I hope she isn't.

Was I rash in the hospital thinking that the death of my baby was her fault?

_I mean she wouldn't try to kill me, would she?_

Instead of telling Edward about my vacillating suspicions about his wife, I make plans to leave, even though that will mean leaving my heart behind with Edward.

***irrelevant***

**June 19, 2013**

_Tomorrow is his birthday. I have to tell him before he leaves for his business trip._

"I've found a job. One where I'lluse my sociology degree."

My announcement cuts through the air, quickly silencing even though minute sounds from the attached bathroom. Choosing to ignore the stillness in the room, I make myself useful by donning my robe.

I turn toward the mirror on the dresser, brushing the tangles out of my hair that our love-making has created. His silence speaks volumes, but I continue explaining my plan because it's good and solid. And, because I no longer give a fuck if he agrees with it or not.

"I'm going to move out. Maybe get a place in Jersey City. It's only about twenty minutes from Manhattan. I can take the train in to my new job." I don't take a breath as my words tumble from my lips and land in the space that separates us. I give him a few more pertinent details. All of which were only solidified yesterday.

He pauses, in the middle of pulling up his pants, and I see, in the mirror's reflection that he has stopped moving because his hands are now on his slender hips, his belt dangling. His face, that moments ago, reflected the sweet afterglow of our lovemaking is now a mask of something else … something scary and unrecognizable.

Before my eyes can imagine how it happened, he's behind me and I'm spun around so fast that the hairbrush slips from my fingers. A naked and well-defined arm sweeps the items from the top of my dresser, crashing bottles onto the floor and breaking them in the process, while another arm holds me back. In less than thirty seconds, I'm roughly placed on the dresser.

"What are you talking about?"

His eyes are the darkest I ever seen them, not even when we're making love are they ever this shade. They are filled with anger.

They look dangerous.

"I'm … ah … this … Rosa—"

Fistedknuckles punch the wall near my head, and I immediately stop talking, cringing in fear.

The more he breathes furiously in my direction, the quicker I try to come up with a way to placate him. I've learned how to do so, and have talked him out of some of his more violent moods, over the months I have been here.

Hands on his bare chest, his muscles bunch under my fingers, I try to reach him.

I'm desperate.

I'm tired of being his 'personal assistant'. Cynically, I think about the dismal and non-existent pay, as well as the fringe benefits from my supposed job that leaves me yearning for a return of my self-respect, and the desire to command my own life … even, if I do love a man that doesn't belong to me.

I'll step back.

I'll get out of the way so my sister's marriage can have a fair shot of surviving.

Especially, since he does not seem to love me, if he even does, as I am with him. But then again, he doesn't seem to be in love with Rosalie at all. In fact, I see disgust, dislike, and borderline distrust in his eyes whenever she is around.

Pushing my assumptions about whom he loves or doesn't out of my mind is easy as I concentrate, for the first time, on _my _desires. Everyone in my life has always chosen to be overly concerned with their well-being, except me. But, no more.

I am sick and tired of feeling irrelevant even though he whispers, so low that I am not sure I've heard it, that I'm not.

I've dedicated a year solely to him.

And what has he given me? Heartache mixed with all too briefmoments of laughter interlaced with mind-shattering orgasms and sad, fucking stories about a boy with no name. But, then, there has also been kindness, overshadowed by unknown source of sadness about something. I feel the weight of that sadness when I catch him watching me and he looks as if his thoughts are miles away … like he is remembering … remembering something … and he can't escape those memories.

Again, I choose to push those thoughts aside that would lead me to waver about _my _decision.

I know what I want and I will not settle for less. Not anymore!

I want his actions to align themselves with his hushed words about my so called relevancy.

_What I want, more than air to breathe, is to hear him tell me he wants me … loves me! _

_I want to be relevant to him._

"That's what you want? You want to leave me because you don't think _I _want you … love you?" he asks, eyes looking bleary.

I hadn't realized I'd voiced my thoughts. When I look into his eyes, I now see fear.

His fear of my words.

He drops to his knees in front of me, kissing the arch of my foot. He trails wet kisses up my calf.

He licks on a kneecap while rubbing the other as he lifts me from the dresser and lays me, reverently, on the bed. Slowly, he unties my robe, pushing the sleeve from my shoulders. I am naked before his eyes.

I see desire and an unspoken emotion in them.

"Edward …" I utter uncertainly.

"Shh. You are relevant," he whispers, kissing my clavicle.

"You're mine. You're _my_ baby girl, made just for me; just for this boy with no name."

My mind swirls with the information he's shared_. _

But, he pushes … lovingly … tenderly … inside of me and all thoughts cease as the sensations, that he's masterful at creating inside of me, overtake my being.

"Edward …"

"Don't leave me. Stay. Stay with me … with this boy with no name. Please," he begs, pulling out.

With only a few kisses, he transports my body into another stratosphere and the feelings his words evoke inside of me are too much.

I have no words.

Tears are all I have, so I give them to him—willingly and in copious amounts—hoping he understands each one that's shed.

"Give me a couple of days, and all this will be over, and it will be as it should have been," he promises, pushing inside of me so far that I think he's trying to reach past my womb.

"Yes …"

He pulls out.

Tears drips unashamedly from his eyes onto my breast as if he's surprised at my easy acquiesce.My hand slips up to one of his eyes and attempts to wipe away the wetness from his cheek, but instead he peppers my hand with kisses.

"I love you, Baby Girl.I always have. For so many years, I've wanted this, but I did it wrong."

His confession goes straight to my heart then beelines to my walls that spasm around his cock, as his vibrant green eyes stare deeply into mine and he pushes further inside of me again.

An uncontrollable groan of ecstasy comes from the depths of my soul.

His eyes command me to look at him. He slowly lifts one leg, turning his mouth then kissing it gently.

"I love every-goddamn-thing about you."

He pushes forward again.

"I love the way your eyes light up when they see me."

He pulls out, breathtakingly slow.

"I love the way your arms make me feel safe and cared for."

He pushes back inside.

"I love the way your pussy clamps around me when you're about to come … like now."

His words push me toward my orgasm, and I come undone, but he doesn't stop lavishing me with his words.

"I love hearing you laugh when you read a funny section in a book."

He swivels his hips then pulls almost all the way out. And, I'm back to being in a Cullen-induced haze.

There's not much else I can take. From his words of adoration or the way that he skillfully manipulates my body toward a higher level of passion.

I smash a finger to his lips, repeating his line, "Shh."

I squeeze my muscle around his cock. "I love you. More than you'll ever know."

His eyes widen at my revelation, _and maybe from the sensation I'm now creating_, because it's the first time I've told this to him.

I relax myself around him. "I love the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking."

I squeeze my muscle slowly around him again. "I love the way you make me, this irrelevant girl, feel so relevant, just by being beside you … by being in your presence."

I relax my muscle, but choose not to give him any reprieve as I continue, hoping to push us both over … over the cliff … where we are the only ones that can rescue and catch each other.

And we fall. Rapturously into one another's arms. Out of breath, heart racing, but more satisfied than all our other times when we shared each other's bodies.

Had I known …

Had I know what would take place, I would have done and said so much more.

If only I had known.

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran is the bestest and rocks! If you care, I am in the Dark and Twisted contest, go read **all** the entries and leave a review here: www . fanfiction u / 4757629 / Dark-and-Twisted-Contest (remove the spaces.)

You know the routine, go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), if you want to look at the pics from this chapter


	11. Chapter 10 - The End?

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author.

There were so many mistakes in this chapter that I have to give co-writing credit to Ms. Sunflower Fran . The chapter was beta'd, but I kept on a tinkering with it and any mistakes are my own.

**FLASHBACK to June 20, 2013**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_Through my deep sleep, I groggily register someone knocking on the front door with such force as if trying to take it off its hinges. Walking as fast as I can toward the noise, my hand blindly reaches to find the handle, fiddling with it, and eventually yanking the door open._

_Standing before me is Rosalie in a flow-y, yellow dress that accentuates her curves and stops at her knees. The bright color wipes away the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes as they slowly peruse her from head to toe. I already know she only wears yellow when she's in a particular mood … a happy mood. This is one of the few details about herself that she's shared with me. _

_Again, my eyes travels back up to her face and lands on her megawatt smile which makes me feel out of place, and, most definitely, under-dressed. Under-dressed and very childish in my pajama set. _

"_Well, personal assistant, it seems your 'service'," she condescends, using air quotes, "Is no longer needed." The smile remains in place, crinkling her eyes at the corner._

_I shake my head in lack of comprehension about her obvious gleeful statement._

___"No need to speak." She steps closer to the door. "I just got a call," she squeals, clapping her hands together, "That your employer is dead."_

___"What!" The screeching sound that leaves my vocal chords surprises me._

___Her smile becomes even more effervescent, if that is possible. She looks at her watch before answering, "I got the exciting news, oh, about an hour ago." She stands to her full height, continuing her announcement, "I am on my way to the morgue right now, to identify the body."_

___"What … I … I don't …" Tears are plucked from my eyes and stain my cheeks. _

___I just spoke with Edward last night. He was out of town on a business trip that he assured me would end whatever was going on with Rosalie and that all would be fine. He was upbeat and told me he loved me before we ended the call._

_She lowers her voice, looking me square in the eyes. "I knew who that bastard was all along. He may have changed his name from Anthony Masen to Edward Cullen, but I knew he was the same asshole that knocked me up so many years ago. His low-class seed should have never been planted in my womb." Her voice quakes with the venom that laces each word. "That fuck robbed me of ever having children with someone who truly deserved me … someone from my own class!"_

_The gasp that leaves my lips is more of a reaction to her revelation about her desire to have children than about learning the true source of her hatred._

"_Rosalie … sister … what did you do?" I whisper brokenly, not sure I want to hear the things she will speak from her now parted lips._

_With her voice still lowered, and eyes pooled with something that resembles pride, she reveals, "I did what I had to ... and, now he and you will be out of my life __permanently__." Her gaze is filled with so much hate and speaks louder and clearer than the words that she's just uttered. _

_The heaviness of her words and her tangible abhorrence settle in then weighs down my chest, pushing me away from her. Instinctively, my hand clutches my chest as I feel the increasing tempo under my fingertips._

_My brain scrambles to formulate a response, and just when I think I have the appropriate words, she interrupts me with a loud: "Now get the fuck off my property!" _

_The intricate back of her beautiful yellow dress flutters in the wind as she whirls away, leaving my heart in shambles and my mind in jumbled confusion._

**END FLASHBACK**

**Wednesday, June 26, 2013**

Silently, I force myself to forget about my last conversation with Rosalie.

_It serves no purpose._

_Not now._

_Not when I am where I am._

The pep talk between my subconscious and myself occurs in the back of a cab. I'm thrown back to the present just as I feel the cab make a quick swerve then a hasty stop in front of my destination. My face is saved from being smashed into the glass divider by the bracing of my arm on the front seat.

_That_ dreadful conversation took place very early on Edward's birthday. After she left, I'd thrown some of my personal items in a bag—with tears blinding my vision—and left her property, still not understanding _all_ that she had revealed.

It was not until mid-day on that same cloudy Thursday that I learned the truth of Rosalie's words. Staring back at me in vivid color on multiple news channels, and plastered in bold, black and white letters in every national newspapers, was the breaking news that Edward Cullen—CEO and Founder of the multi-billion dollar, technical security firm, Cullen Inc.—died in a fiery blaze inside his car.

"That'll be ten bucks, lady."

Shoving the money into the older cabbie's hand, I exit the taxi, blowing out a breath, still not actually where I'm about to go.

It's only 9 A.M., and already Manhattan's oppressive heat is making my armpits sweat, which I hate. Taking a steadying breath, I climb the steps of The Riverside Church, one of city's oldest places of worship.

Once inside, I'm grateful for its coolness. The beautiful architecture momentarily distracts me, giving me a small mental and emotional reprieve from what lies ahead … in front of the line of people before me.

Each pew is jam-packed. I see former and current mayors from different cities, other political dignitaries, established business leaders from across the globe as well as a smattering of celebrities. Some of the faces are recognizable from the dinner parties he used to drag me to or the charitable balls we'd attend simply because his company was a sponsor.

_That's it, put one foot before the other _I silently encourage myself.

My heart clenches and my stomach threatens to regurgitate the last meal I ate, which is impossible, since I haven't eaten anything in about a week. My lungs wheeze as if it's a distressed bronchial sufferer and my eyesight blurs with tears that won't fall.

The line stalls and I grab onto the top of a pew for support. My knees feel like they are about to give out from under me. Without looking down, I know my knuckles are white to the bone because of my tight grip.

A lone tear escapes and drops onto the tiled floor. To me, the sound loudly reverberates throughout the entire church. The lady nearest to me, sitting in the pew, turns her head questioningly, but not recognizing me, I'm easily dismissed as a common mourner.

_Irrelevant … _

_That's __how I feel. Even though, just a week ago, the man I'm here to see told and showed me that I wasn't irrelevant, at least to him__._

I look up seeing that only three people are in front of me now.

Off to the side, a well-wisher greets her with a kiss on the cheek. _She deserves a damn Oscar for her performance. _She's wearing a wide-brimmed, black hat as well as darkly-tinted sunglasses. I pull down my own hat further on my face in the hopes of staying out of her line of sight.

My heart begins to hammer once again, my stomach picks up its somersault movements that are quicker than any gymnast, my lungs continue to lack sufficient oxygen, and my tears fall freely, unable to be contained by my flimsy handkerchief.

All too soon, I've reached the reason why I'm here this morning.

Big, fat, salty tears are torn from the deepest part of me; where I'd hidden long-held feelings that I'd only shared with Edward a week ago.

I get to the front, but regret quickly washes over me. I won't be able to see if he has on his signature colors of black and white that made him look debonair. I won't even see, for one last time, his burnt reddish hair color or his very masculine jawline … both so classically him. Even though I'm _only_ staring down at a closed casket, I can't leave. I can't move from this spot.

He's dead … Edward … he's really, truly, gone.

_Here lies the man, the only person that loved __me _in spite _of my irrelevancy__._

The weight of how little time he and I had, how many hindrances blocked our way toward a happily-ever-after as well as how difficult it was to trust each other, sends me crashing head-long into another emotional wave … that I'm not sure I'll ever recover from.

_I'll never be able to look into his beautiful, green eyes—_

"You bitch!"

I don't need to turn my head to know the voice belongs to the one that reared me for more than two decades yet sold me like common chattel.

_Ah, the loving voice of my step-mother, Mrs. Renee Swan._

I don't return my opinion about her character. Not because I care about the combative stares I'd likely receive from people who have sided with her and her daughter; but, more out of my respect to the man that died holding my heart in his hands.

She likes all of this: the curious stares her outburst has attracted and the pitying looks from the few friends she's most likely shared her version of her truth with. And, lastly, being painted as the _sole _victim, when we're all victims in this life Fate has chosen for us to live out.

"Mrs. Swan, let's not make a scene. There are people watching," a man whispers with a tight smile, looking at me.

She turns her head away from me as if the action can further render me anymore inconsequential.

Anymore irrelevant.

"Then do your job and get her the hell out of here!" she says with every bit of maliciousness, which we both feel toward each other, dripping in her words. 

_Where's the grieving widow that should be dressed in her finery for the world to see?_ I think dispassionately just as a side glance spies Rosalie's unmistakable blond hair and perfect features looking pleased with her mother's verbal onslaught toward me. 

Fingers snap and I'm whisked away by a pair of strong arms with a scent that's familiar. I'm spun around and away from the casket and led through the church's side door.

_The side door for his side piece … how apropos._

A gust of wind hits my face letting me know I'm outside and away from the spectacle she wanted to start. His arms embrace me in a tight bear-of-a-hug, and I take a guess at whose arm I'm engulfed in.

"Emmett?" I ask unsurely.

"I'm so sorry, Baby Girl." Emmett's use of _his_ pet name for me makes tears flow down my face again.

I fist the back of his suit, pushing my face further into his chest and trying my best to escape inside him. The front of his shirt is soaked with my tears, and yet, I can't stop them. He hugs me closer to his body, and we are both overcome by our shared grief for the man I called lover, and he called friend, as well as employer.

And, I am, so _fucking_ sorry.

Sorry for the boy with no name and sorry for my irrelevant self.

**A/N:**Sunflower Fran is a cool chick who puts up with me and makes my words pretty for all of you. If you see her on Facebook, give her some love for the work she does. If you care, I am in the Dark and Twisted contest, go read **all** the entries and leave a review here: www . fanfiction u / 4757629 / Dark-and-Twisted-Contest (remove the spaces.)

You know the routine, go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), if you want to look at the pics from this chapter


	12. Chapter 11 - Loose Ends Tied Up

**DISCLAIMER:** We pay homage to Stephenie Meyer's creativity by playing around with her Twilight characters which belong to her. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not translate without express permission by author. This final chapter is dedicated to CaliGirlMon, PoppySeed101, FranRichards, and SunFlower Fran (thank you for the seedling of the idea) for their desire of a HEA. This is _my_ compromise between their desires and keeping true to the original intent of my entry in the 2013 TLS Angst Contest. I hope you all like it :)

I was asked by a few of the readers around chapter eight or so if I intended to write an Epilogue. The beta's comments about this chapter should answer those inquires which are: "So you made me sob like a baby ... It wasn't my happy ending, but it showed he cared for her so much ... and it did tie up loose ends ..."

Beta'd but I kept tinkering so mistakes are mine.

Oh, the definition of Angst, is often confused with anxiety, is a transcendent emotion in that it combines the unbearable anguish of life with the hopes of overcoming this seemingly impossible situation. Without the important element of hope, then the emotion is anxiety, not angst. Angst denotes the constant struggle one has with the burdens of life that weighs on the dispossessed and not knowing when the salvation will appear.

It is my hope that I have told a truly Angst-ridden story. But, you will let me know. I hope.

**Chapter 11: Loose Ends Tied Up**

**December 31, 2013**

My mind briefly remembers reading the news article from two weeks ago announcing the arrest of Rosalie and a former stable hand at the Cullen residence,Riley Biers, in connection with Edward's death. I still can't believe I'd been cordial to him despite Edward's jealousy back then.

With each new day, a new article is printed detailing how they planned their dastardly deeds. However, they do not reveal when Rosalie started on her path toward revenge. In every picture taken of Rosalie she looks hauntingly smug. She doesn't look the least bit remorseful for her role in ending another person's life. One article, printed yesterday, reported that their treachery would not have been discovered without the help from an inside source close to the situation.

The articles I've read detail the same turn of events Rosalie shared with me months ago. Some allege that she used sexual advances on Riley, who had recently turned eighteen years old, to get him to help her commit her crimes. Surprisingly, my name has not been publicly mentioned in connection with Rosalie. And, more surprisingly is the mysterious disappearance of Renee. There was a picture, in a news article, of Renee boarding a flight to an undisclosed international location. When asked for comments about her daughter's arrest, her statement was succinct: "Rosalie is an adult and will stand, alone, to face the music."

_Some damn mother!_

Sometimes, it's still hard to believe it all_. _

Edward is dead.

Rosalie is in jail.

And, I am ... I am—

A loud clinking sound, on a glass maybe, interrupts my thoughts. Looking up, I see Emmett tapping on his watch which pulls me away from my dark thoughts and to the here and now.

It's about thirty minutes before 2014 is ushered in, and I can't believe the number of people here.

I look around at the faces gathered inside Leslie Books & Things. The store is hosting its weekly 'Spend Your Night with …' series which features up-and-coming authors. When the clock strikes midnight, I'll stand at the podium and read a section from my book, _From Irrelevant to Relevant: My Time with Edward Cullen_. I'm still amazed that it's _New York Times_ bestseller.

Standing behind the curtain, I hear the owner help the patrons count down.

Whistles are blown. Kisses are shared. Strangers and friends embrace each other.

"Happy New Year, Emmett."

He responds in kind, giving my fingers a small squeeze then guides me up the steps. Walking onto the platform, the hand clapping is thunderous and my nervousness spikes once again. Someone adjusts the microphone which gives me a brief moment to inhale some discreet calming breaths.

_I can do this._

With more confidence than I feel, I step forward and open my book and begin reading from chapter one.

***irrelevant***

At the end of the reading, Emmett helps me navigate the few steps in front of me. In my seven month of pregnancy, I'm a bit clumsier. And, despite the weary feeling that seeps through my entire body, I make an effort to remember the faces of the eager customers, happy for my autograph, and express my gratitude for their patronage and support. Not quickly enough, the end of the book signing is moments away, and though my energy level is lowering, I keep the smile on my face knowing this is part of the deal.

With a sigh on my lips, I sign my name under the picture of Edward that is on the inside of the book jacket … and my heart breaks all over again. The picture is nothing spectacular, but I took it, and it's special to me. His hand rakes through his hair as I caught him in a candid pose on one of our jaunts around the city. He wears his signature smile and the corners of his eyes are lined with subtle wrinkles. His squinted gaze, which hides his eyes, makes him appear as if he's holding the world's biggest secret.

Trailing a fingertip over the glossy image of his crescent-shaped lips, I can't help but think of our baby, the one nestled in my womb, who will never know his father.

I think of the boy with no name who was scorned by Delilah in a barn so many years ago; the very same boy who ran into me, and I helped him up. He became a man … _my_ man … that demanded to be seen.

A distinct cologne wafts into my nostrils, reminiscent of the scent Edward frequently wore. Large hands open a blank page of my book, but I'm too tired to look up, and thank the reader for their thoughtfulness.

Head bended down, I ask, "To whom should I sign this to?"

"To my baby girl."

For a moment, I delude myself into thinking Edward is _here _at my book signing, requesting an autograph. But, I know better … the timbre in this speaker's voice is off … different … definitely not my Edward's.

Unfortunately.

My eyes glass over with unshed tears. I raise my eyes at a man whose arm is draped around the shoulders of a beautiful, blond beside him.

"My baby girl is your biggest fan, Ms. Swan," he tells me.

She smiles serenely up at him.

_I'll never get to do that to my love._

And, even though it breaks my heart writing the words I'll never hear you say to me again, I write: _'From one baby girl to another, remember, love makes you relevant.'_

***irrelevant***

**February 14, 2014**

"Bella, one last push. Come on, you can do it."

I look into the determined eyes of Dr. Alice Whitlock, my OB/GYN, and grunt through a contraction despite what I learned in the Lamaze classes Emmett dragged me to.

I force my head from the pillow and gather some strength that I really don't feel I have, and bear down, grunting some more, while grimacing, as another contraction hardens my stomach.

I yell at everything and everyone as well.

I curse the gender that impregnates women for putting us through this indescribable pain.

If Edward were here, it would be his hand that would be tightly clutched in mine. But the firm grip I have is Emmett's and I squeeze it as hard as I can while I cry out in pain as another contraction rips through my body, followed by an intense feeling of relief … relief that it is over!

I flop backward, thanking God for the end of _that _ordeal. I feel a slight weight of something on top of my stomach and realize it's my child, covered in a white goo-like substance.

But, he doesn't cry nor does he move.

Tears spill from my eyes as I realize that I have birthed another dead baby.

Quicker than I can process, he's whisked off my stomach by a nurse. My ears perk up, even in my tiredness, listening for the sound I didn't hear the last time I was in a similar room … in a similar situation. My eyes zoom over to the bowed heads as my heart goes into my throat, waiting for those precious sounds.

I feel Emmett's fingers tightening around mine in an almost bone crushing grip. Neither of us says anything, but I _feel _his concern. I _hear_ his un-stated worries.

_Not another loss. I couldn't take it._

_I would not survive this one!_

Just then, I hear the sweet sounds of newborn cries echo throughout the birthing room.

_Thank God!_

Simultaneously, Emmett and I release our pent-up breaths and look into each other's eyes as relief washes over us. Wintry-like air grazes my temple as he leans over to kiss it before he takes off toward my child. I hear oohs and ahhs and the distinct clicking sound of a camera going off.

The rest of what happens to me occurs in a daze and I barely remember much more.

***irrelevant*** 

**Sometime later …**

Soft cooing sounds infiltrate my subconscious, and I slowly crawl my way out of the best sleep, albeit drug-induced, since June 19, 2012 ... the last day I saw Edward.

An eyes pops open and I see Emmett's wide back bent over what has to be the hospital's mobile bassinet for newborns.

As if he knows I've risen from my slumber and am silently watching him, he whispers, "I probably shouldn't say this about a boy, but he's beautiful, B." His light chuckles force a grin on my lips.

I push myself up on the propped pillow. "Does he have all ten toes and fingers?" 

"Yep," he responds, lowering his voice even more.

I'm rewarded with a blinding smile as he pivots in my direction. He's really an attractive man. The more time I spend with him, the more I enjoy seeing his easy, affable character come alive. But, I've also witnessed him transition from amiable to aggressively protective in a spilt instance. And, that part of him is not only enticing but it's also endearing. As I realize that I'm looking too closely at Emmett, in a non-professional manner, the grin leaves my lips and is replaced by a frown.

_Shit! Could I be …?_

Instead of dealing with whatever weird emotions I'm having, I chalk them up to leftover pregnancy emotional issues, and deflect. "How long have I been sleeping?" My voice sounds like it's been raked over hot coals and doused with a bucket of water to cool the temperature. 

He saddles up to the bed; hip perched on part of the bedside tray in front of me. "Not too long. A nurse just fed the kid." He nods backward to the bassinet. "She told me to tell you that you should be good for another two to three hours." 

"The kid. Really, Emmett?" The grin is back on my lips. "Priceless. Only you would come up with a nickname that quickly. Why you couldn't just say Edward's name, or even mine, is beyond me." The grin morphs into a smile, even as my heart stuttered at the mention of Edward's name. 

"First initials are just easier, I don't know." He ends the conversation with a cheeky grin and a shrug of his shoulder.

We fall into an easy silence, not needing to communicate verbally. The 'kid's' soft, low snores are the only sounds in the room. I realize at that moment, that I am actually content. My book is doing well, making me decent money so I can provide comfortably for my child and myself. We won't ever have the millions that Edward had at his disposal, but we will be fine, especially now that I plan on writing about my childhood. And, I'm even working through my esteem issues by seeing a therapist. I want to raise a strong man who is self-aware and self-confident. But, first his mother needs to get a handle on her own emotional well-being.

"I have something to ask you." His voice sounds nervous and hesitant.

"Shoot?" My ears perk up because rarely does he pry into my personal life or question my professional decisions.

He just continues to be there … as my shadow … as my protector.

"Do you plan on getting a piece of E's estate? You know, for the kid?" He shuffles his feet and looks everywhere but at me.

I'd thought about not pursuing that, but now …

Not bothering to allow the daunting task that lie ahead of me to dissuade me, I reveal my final decision. "I think so. I mean he is Edward's child. He should be a recipient of that legacy his father built, you know?"

His head pops up as if pleased with my decision. "Good. Good. Wise choice. E would want that." He sits on the edge of the bed after my statement.

"Yeah, I make those sometimes … good decisions, that is." I laugh at my own sassy response.

Chuckling himself, he reveals, "E always said you were a spitfire." His shoulders shake with his mirth. 

"Yeah, Edward said a lot of things." A sad sigh escapes my lips. "Some of which I'd love to hear again, you know?' 

"That I do, B. That I do." 

_There are many things I would love to hear Edward say again if given another chance. But, the thing I would love above all else is—_

"What's the kid's name?" Emmett inquires, interrupting me while propping his forearm on top of the bedside eating tray, leaning in my direction.

"Edward Anthony Cullen II. Can't continue a legacy without bearing the name of the one that started it all, now can you?"

His features soften, and I can't help noticing how handsome he is … chestnut-colored, curly hair; dimples so deep that when they show up you have to respond with a smile; and a strong, square chin. His intent look into my eyes doesn't make me uncomfortable, but I don't know what it means.

He's the first to break eye contact, exhaling loudly. "I have to … I'm going to get out of here, B. But, I'll be back first thing tomorrow. Do you need anything?"

_Always the bodyguard. _

I don't say I need him to clue me in on the look that flashed across his face moments ago. I don't say anything about my own complicated _feelings_ toward my employee. And, I definitely don't tell him that being around him lessens the sting of Edward's death.

Instead I shake my head as I watch him get to his feet. He comes closer to me, and kisses my cheek. He lingers there and a small part of me wonders what his lips would be like as my senses are engulfed with his unique smell.

The door closes quietly behind him, and I'm left with a sleeping baby and very confusing feelings. I push the bedside table away from my upper body and see, at the foot of the bed, a simple, hand-written note. Realizing that the item must belong to Emmett, I grab it, and gingerly get out of the bed, hoping, as I open the door, that he's still in the hallway waiting for the elevator.

When I see no sign of him, I look down at the device in my hand. Its sleek looking with a few simple buttons, and a note—in Emmett's signature scrawl-like handwriting—that says: listen to me.

_Huh?_

Going back to the bed, I contemplate whether the note is for me, or if it's a reminder to Emmett from himself. Now, my curiosity is at an all-time high because my interest is now piqued about the note as well as what the hell could be on the device.

My finger finds the play button on the side.

"_Baby Girl …" _the voice floats from the device and shocks my system. I throw it down, away from me.

_What the hell is going on?_

"_Baby Girl, pick up the recorder?"_

_What the hell? _

"_Isabella, pick up the damn recorder!"_

Slowly, my hand creeps to the item at his command. I hear a chuckle at the other end as if _he's_ right in the hospital room.

"_I would give anything to see your face when you heard my voice."_

This time when I hear his laughter, I'm much calmer, _I think_, and school my facial features despite the butterflies floating in my stomach.

I cradle the device near my heart. 

"_If you're hearing this … um, then, shit, my plan didn't go so well."_ There is a pause, at least two minutes in length, where all I hear is his ragged breathing as if he's deciding what to say next. _"I'm sorry. I really thought I had it all figured out and that you and I …well, that the boy with no name would finally get what he deserved."_

Pressing stop on the device, I grab a couple of tissues from my side table as tears of joy from hearing his voice pours out of me. It's like I had a delayed reaction and now, my emotions are catching up to the present.

"_You've been it for me since that day you bumped into me at your folks' barn. I … I just didn't know it then … and,"_ I hear a sigh. _"And to be honest, when I met Rosalie again, I was so hell bent on revenge that I couldn't see straight. I fucked up. I should have … I wished to God, I would have courted you …"_ Another sigh and a sniff. _"I should have married you, Baby Girl."_

Silent tears … regretful tears, from his admission, well up in my eyes impairing my vision.

His voice is strong, and his cadence is so life-like, almost as if he's sitting in the room with me. Just as a tear drop onto my cheek, the voice in the device, gruffly commands, _"Wipe your eyes, Baby Girl."_

And, without thought, I comply.

_"I am so very fucking sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have stopped ... Especially after you … after we … after the fall."_

Ah yes, the push down the steps exactly a year ago.

"_That's really when I knew I had to end her … she killed my child … my god damn son! A second time, she robbed me of a child. I wanted her head on a damn platter. But … there was you needing comfort and I just … there was never enough time to tell you that I had a plan. That shit was solid too."_ I hear papers moving around. _"I had proof … I had all the proof I needed, just not enough damn time!"_

"Proof? What are you talking about, Edward," I whisper-yell at the device, shaking my head about my cluelessness.

"_I wish we could have had another chance … another chance to create a perfect blend of you and me … someone for us to love. Someone that would never grow up without a name like I did or you did, feeling as if you did not matter … as if you were irrelevant."_

The sniffs become louder and more frequently as he speaks, but his voice remains clear.

"_I knew Rosalie recognized me when he met on Fifth Avenue that day. I knew it because I had the bitch investigated. I knew she watched me like a hawk, looking for her moment to kill me. And, still I chose to follow my vengeful course, wanting her to suffer as she had made me that day in the barn. It actually blinded me so much so that even when I asked you to be my personal assistant—and for that, I am fucking sorry—I had to stay away for those three months, because just having you in my home … in my presence … at an arm's length away would unravel the plans I had for Rosalie, and stupidly, I wasn't ready to do that."_

The tears run freely down my face and onto the top of my hospital gown as I hear his cries through the device. My hands, on their own, trail the sides of the device as if gentling the man who I cannot touch.

"_Instead of fucking getting her comeuppance, you suffered … at my hands. Because of my ass backward plans. My baby girl suffered! You got the brunt of all the shit I wanted to happen to your sister." _His cries vibrate the device on my chest. _"I guess my plan was fucked from the beginning if nothing happened to that bitch."_

His invectives toward Rosalie continue loudly and for many minutes. I hear his harsh breathing as the words fly out of his mouth … all evidence of his hatred.

"Calm down, Edward. Calm down," I tell the device even as his diatribe continues. 

There is another long pause as if he's heard me.

"_I'm sorry about a lot of things."_ His voice cracks again and the sobs are deafening.

A few break through my own larynx. "I know you're sorry. I know." Our words are combined and trip over what the other says.

"_So sorry. So damn sorry, Baby Girl. I wish I could say more. I wish I could see your beautiful face and kiss your sweet lips. I wish to God that I could get one last chance to bury myself inside of you. But …"_

There is another pause, he blows his nose, and I chuckle at the man so comfortable in his own skin that he doesn't care that he's noisily blown into my ear.

"_I love you. I love every part of you, Isabella Swan … my Baby Girl." _

My heart thumps loudly and I silently relay my love for him.

"_Can I ask you a favor?" _Nothing else is said, almost like he's truly waiting for me to respond.

And, I do since from the moment I pressed the play button, this has been the single most unusual conversation, if you can call it that.

"Sure, Edward."

"_Can I ask you to keep your heart locked away for only me? Can I ask you to never, ever, forget me?"_ Again, there is another length of silence as he waits for my response.

But, I can't. I don't know if I _want_ to keep my heart locked away even though I know I'll never forget him. My mind's eye flashes to Emmett …

I hear a loud exhale and then a quick intake of breath followed by some curses that make me embarrass. _"Fuck! That would be selfish, right? I hate that another man will look at you and think you beautiful! I fucking hate the fact that you'll probably, one day, meet someone who is better than me … who can replace me … who can touch you!" _

His words tornadoes through my thoughts, swirling through my emotions and leaving in its wake a desire to comply with his wishes but, they also increase my yearning for closure.

Again, he's silent as he waits for me. So, dumbly, as if he can hear me, I tell him truthfully: "I don't know what you want from me, Edward. I can't—"

"_That would be selfish. My request is fucking selfish!"_

His statement settles in the atmosphere, silencing the both of us … him, wherever he is, and me, on the hospital bed. I wait with bated breath what he'll say next.

His voice lowers, above a whisper. _"And, I'm trying not to be selfish again, since I don't think I am coming back from wherever the hell I am. So, don't listen to me. That was just the selfish prick you knew talking. This is the man that loves you … begging you not to lock away your heart. Give it to someone who deserves it … hell, I never deserved your love, but you gave it to me freely. So, this time, give it to someone who deserves it … to someone who will love you beyond yourself. Someone not bound to something that supersedes his love for you … someone honest and strong and good. Someone like …"_

He pauses again and I steel myself.

"_Someone …"_

"_Like …"_

"_Emmett."_

At the name, the breath lodged in my throat rushes forward through my lips.

"_I trusted him my entire life and I would trust him with you, Baby Girl."_

The recording ends with: _"I can't give you what he can … not from where I am."_

He clears his throat. His next words are in his normal speaking voice. _"And, Isabella, I've left everything to you. Whatever I own is yours now. My will is air tight. And, just know that yo__u were never irrelevant, Baby Girl. Not to this boy with no name. Go … go be happy because you deserve it."_

The End.

**A/N:**

Thank you for taking this journey with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Sunflower Fran rocks out like a rock star. She makes my jumbled mess beautiful. If you care, I am in the Dark and Twisted contest, go read **all** the entries and leave a review here: www . fanfiction u / 4757629 / Dark-and-Twisted-Contest (remove the spaces.)

You know the routine, go to the blog, luvtwilight4eva . blogspot p / irrelevant . html (remove spaces), if you want to look at the pics from this chapter


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